Airbrushed vs. Toothbrushed

Brushing my hair and applying makeup were once thought to be practical steps to beautification before heading out of the house. 

  Not so much...anymore.

  Ever since the time, in the not-so-distant past, when not once...but TWICE...found that by leaning over the bathroom sink to apply a bit of color to my pasty white skin I was actually completing the task of becoming minty fresh as well.  That would be quite the multi-tasking feat IF it were happening in the dental region.  However, since it was happening midriff section...I was less than pleased. 

  Yes, I had managed to get a good-sized glob of toothpaste across the undershelf of my belly zone.  What the heck, I'm 44, mother to seven children,  compiler of countless hours of exercise with a side of clean eating.  I have absolutely no reason to put on airs and deny the "baby pooch."  God as my witness, I've tried to humble it's appearance.  It can't be that bad, because no facial, close-up mirrored reflection reveals it.  No, apparently it can't be seen until all make-up is applied, hair is curled, and I'm ready to walk out the door.  Only when time is running short and a step back is taken to reveal the finished product will it most likely reveal itself.  Of course, the fact that it is outlined in a thick, sticky, white, peppermint-scented tracing of my sink ledge might draw attention to it. 

  I quickly decided it best not to highlight the area by allowing my children's dental routine left-over's to remain on my purple bloused midsection.  I grabbed the nearest towel slung into the tub and quickly doused and rubbed before glancing in the mirror only to notice I still had mascara to apply.

 No big deal, no harm done I thought, UNTIL I leaned back from the mirror and observed, YET ANOTHER slab of breath freshening intrusion across my towel-blotted belly.  You have got to be kidding me!  I checked the time, which was already pressuring me, and lunged for the sopping towel once again to rid myself of all offensive white paste.  It worked!  However, left in it's place was the darkened shapes of not one...but TWO dark silhouettes coming together to form a genuine likeness to the finger lakes region.  I probably could have explained one sodden patch...but this new addition called for drastic measures. 

  I ran for my hair dryer, searching high and low, until locating it in the most obvious of hiding places- right next to my wood-burning fire place.  Memories of my 15 year-old trouble-shooting, ingenious son attempting to achieve a hotter and higher flame during the previous night's cold-snap enlightened me as to the why of it's location.  No time to reminisce and ponder on his brilliance...nope...only time to recognize the familiar ashy scent that had flooded the house the night before causing windows to be opened a crack.  If I weren't scrambling for time I might have appreciated the scientific teachable moment which revealed air circulating into a suction driven motor will carry other particles along with it depositing a certain scent as air is dispersed...right into the fibers of my swampy, purple blouse in five seconds flat.

 I give up.  Why try and hide the fact that my life is not picture perfect, nor am I.  Perhaps this is a good thing...if you don't require fragrance free and have an appreciation for the finer perfumes not found in the most exclusive boutiques.  It seems I have created a most enchanting, totally original, unique aroma boasting an outdoorsy bouquet of mint, laced with hints of soap and undercurrents of filtered woodsmoke.  Ooh la la.

Dinner Party

 

  Question for you:  Do you find anything unusual about a frozen, lifeless waterfowl being shown around the table during a dinner party? 

  Clarification:  It WAS formally dressed for the occasion in a swanky, white, plastic garbage bag with just it's head exposed...well mostly, there was that beautiful colored wing feather that deserved to see light.

  I ask because I was a participant at said dinner party.  Ok, fine- I hosted said dinner party and was participating in the oohing and aahing while my hunter son walked seat to seat, proudly displaying this chilled, beautiful bird.  Forks paused midair while guests viewed tinted hues of greens and blues.

  It wasn't until my eyes met my mother's, amused and twinkling under raised eyebrows, that it occurred to me... perhaps this is not the norm around dinner tables across our great country.

 My desensitization began thirteen years ago while checking the pockets of my young son's jeans before loading the washer.  I was horrified and completely disgusted upon withdrawing a tangle of shriveled, dry worms.  You can thank me for sparing you the blog I envisioned about two years ago titled, "Fish guts on my front door."  And I won't bore you with details of the frog leg I stepped over while trying to break into my own back door to retrieve the keys locked inside. 

  I will tease you with tantalizing hints of future posts detailing how glorious it will be to have yet another set of antlers that are currently being... readied...for display from the newest hunter to hit the trails.  But you probably know ALL about that...because doesn't EVERYONE have a deer head buried in their yard with just the antlers sticking out...covered in tinfoil...letting nature do the dirty work?

 

 
 

Oops...

  Fiction could not be funnier than the truth during a recent car ride across town to visit my sister.

5 year- old daughter in a hoarse whisper: "JAAAMIE"

9 year old son distractedly turns his attention from the passing view out the window to his sister as he responds in a similar hoarse whisper: "What?"

5 year-old "You should have brushed your teeth before we left for Aunt Liz's..."

To which my 14 year old daughter chimes in from the front seat, "Guys, we're passing the poop factory," while gesturing to the Wastewater Treatment Plant on our left.

My five year-old daughter simply squeaked out "Oh," before sliding her eyes to her brother sitting a mere foot and a half away in the backseat and added, "sorry."

My nine year-old manages to catch my eye in the rear view mirror to express his exasperation with an understated eye roll before returning his gaze to the city whizzing by just outside his window.

Aaand...on we drive.

Pushing Through

 

  Overcoming obstacles is largely a mindset.

  The other night brought howling winds.  I hadn't gotten my walk in that day and I was determined to keep the schedule I had going.  Add to that, the text from my accountability partner telling me to get out in that stinkin weather.  She had run seven miles facing 50 mph winds.  How could I not walk my two measly miles?

  Dusk was due pretty soon after the motivating text came in so I needed to move it.  I sought the child most susceptible to pitying their mother walking alone in inclement weather.  Thank you dear sixth grade son:)  By the time we got to the Peninsula the winds were whipping the waves into a choppy soup threatening to splash if we got too near.  It was necessary to divert my son's growing apprehension in facing the creaking, thrashing limbs of trees lining the path. I tried to talk him into looking horizontally instead of vertically at the overhanging frenzied branches.

 Not even half way to our turn around mark, my son was reaching high-anxiety levels, complete with screaming over the wind, pleading, glistening eyes squeezed in fright, and hands locked over his ears.  "C'mon, we're almost there!," came my return plea.  "I want to go home!  Don't you hear how dangerous this is?," he shouted right before a branch landed behind us with a loud CRACK!  For the first time since I began walking this summer I began to add interval sprints.  "Hey", I panted during the recovery phase, "courage doesn't mean you're not afraid.  It means you feel the fear but do it anyway."  I don't know what reserve of strength kept my son moving forward in the darkening night as the wind screamed, branches yelled menacing threats, and dried leaves accompanied the desolation with their scratchy skittering for cover across the paved paths.  Our backdrop of the rolling water leapt into 3-D focus with intermittent sprays adding to the surreal evening that seemed to intensify in danger the further we went.  We continued on at a quickened pace while I yelled to myself as much as to my frightened boy, "Don't miss the beauty!"  Though justified in our wary state, it would have been a shame to miss the crescent moon taking center stage in the stormy sky.

  We did it!  We made it to the half way mark...now to get back.

  We were face to face with an onslaught of the wind's full force pushing back against our efforts.  My son's arms were aching from his effort to hold them against his ears the entire way.  He resisted my earmuffs and gave me a scathing look at the offer of my fluorescent pink scarf.  My legs were feeling the burn from unfamiliar exertion.  Our clothes billowed out as we held onto one another during the frequent burst of upscaled gales.  Anxious to be out of harms way, my son said, "C'mon Mom, let's run through this next part!"  I knew he wanted to quickly get through the tunnel of trees lining both sides of the next hundred yards.  We had already been stepping over downed limbs.  I felt the leaden weight in my legs and knew I had reached exhaustion..."I can't.  I just don't think I can do it."  Clearly, I had made an error of judgement in pressing on- but we had no choice but to get ourselves back to the car.  We had three quarter mile to trod and we would have to fight for every step.

  That was the moment I realized how brazenly I had encouraged my son about courage as I kept on in the face of his keen terror.  He had kept going...I figured he'd be proud of himself for overcoming his fear.  I hadn't  the extreme mental mountains he was climbing to get over that hurdle.  I truly believed we'd be fine- I had walked this trail in a downpour before though my son had not.  My son is a lean and lanky, natural runner...though I am not.  I looked at the path ahead and made the decision to push my legs and lungs hard!  If I could ask my son to keep going, in what appeared to be a death-defying situation from his perspective, then I better darn well give his request the same respect and push through my perspective which insisted I simply could not.

  I gained insight as we rounded the bend to the safe comfort of our car.  It's easy to ask others to keep going in the face of their struggle when we know the outcome.  It's easier yet if they are our children and we have authority that can demand it.  It would be very good for our appreciation of what we are asking of them if we but walk, or run, in their shoes every now and then.

Linked In...Somehow

  With Thanksgiving a couple days away most people's thoughts drift to family, feasting, giving thanks, pumpkin pies and the like.  There is, however, a group that IS looking forward to all the aforementioned delights of the season...and yet, their focus has already shifted past the actual holiday.  Their heartbeat has already begun to quicken at the thought of the following Monday.  There's a subtle buzz of excited energy that seems to surround the die hards in this group, almost as if they're hearing a call in the close distance but must bide their time until they may answer.

  You very well could be related to this group.  Doesn't matter if you are a daughter, son, spouse, parent, cousin, grandchild or friend to one in this group.  If camouflage, antler rattling, binoculars, walkie-talkies, deer urine, or no-scent laundry soap have entered your home or conversations...you most likely are linked to this breed known as HUNTERS.  Perhaps YOU are the link in your family?

  I have vague memories of my Dad taking my brothers out in the vineyards and woods around this time of year for small game.  Those instances were so rare that I remember a feeling of surprise they knew how to hunt or that my father even owned a gun.  And yet, it wasn't until a few years ago, when I was given a DVD of my Dad's childhood that I learned of his passion for hunting with his family.  His joy was apparent in the black and white footage that captured several excursions with my uncles and people I don't know gathering before, during, and after triumphant hunts.  I grew up in a family of twelve children.  My Mom was in need of as much support and assistance as she could muster.  I've since come to understand that hunting from dusk to dawn was the first of many sacrifices my Dad would make over the years. 

Ironically,  I married a man who, I thought, was hardcore into nature.  Sure, he talked a great deal about animals and loved to take me for walks at his buddy's camp to "show me the beauty of the trails."  I simply had no comprehension of scouting.  I suppose I could have been a little more tuned in to the fact he had owned his own archery shop.  And while he seemed to have a real penchant for brown, green, and olive clothing it was the unusual liking for fluorescent orange which perhaps should have raised some serious questions in me.  There were the couple times I was caught off guard as he startled the heck out of me during one of our nature walks with a spot on crow call.  I remember giving him an awkward compliment on nailing the likeness as I let the question of what type of person learns the calls of the wild fly right out of my mind.   If my Sweetheart told me he was a HUNTER while we were dating it must have gone right over my head and out of my radar with regards to how it could possibly affect my life.  While dating, I realized this sincere, kind-eyed cutie was a man of few words.  Hindsight being 20/20, I NOW see how I greatly underestimated his phrase, "I like to hunt." My experience with hunters were the infrequent, random times my Dad and brothers went out with a gun to see what they could see.


  My accumulated information over the years now reflects my maturing knowledge on the topic.  Whereas, I was used to fall for the line, "Honey, we have to go most nights this week.  The season ends Saturday!"  I now know there is almost always something in season.  The main changes are merely the target and tools used to hit the target.  The urgency I once naively catered to has grown into a respectful, "Hey, babe do you mind if we go out tonight?  The ducks are flying."  The subtle change showing in the question mark. 

I have come to truly appreciate the meat in the freezer with seven of our own children.  I love that my husband has passed on this incredible survival skill to those of ours who want to learn.  Yes, there are a couple daughters in line to take the hunters safety class as well.  The balance of heavy work-load is shifting in these later years.  The babies in bibs I tended to during the hunts are growing into camouflage bibs, worn to scout and call in the deer they only heard about in their youth.

  I've noticed a trend that most hunters skipped a generation.  My husband learned from his grandfather since his mother was determined to never marry a hunter.  She had grown up in a house where hunting schedules inflicted a strain on her parents.  Hunting can be an undeniable passion.  Some might call it an addiction for those who answer the call.  I kind of got swept in before I knew what was happening.  My sacrifices of being the "hunting widow" throughout different seasons have mellowed into a joyful expectation of spending time with those who stay back.  That's been the tricky part.  One of my younger sons recently confessed the reason he stopped hunting with Dad was that I always took the other kids to the movies, out to eat, shopping, and visiting with cousins while they were gone.... 

 So, yeah,  I'm not gonna lie...I learned to be a woman of few words as I would tell my husband, "No, Hon, I don't mind if you take the older ones to go hunting for a long weekend."  Hey, they learn to call, scout, and track.  We learn to "adapt." ;)